


The Other Half of My Soul

by katerina04



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Pain, Possessive Ivar (Vikings), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katerina04/pseuds/katerina04
Summary: In the aftermath of the civil war that put Ivar on the throne of Kattegat, unresolved feelings between the zealous warrior bishop and his cruel but complicated king come to a head, ending with Heahmund returning to England emotionally and spiritually in a state of crisis. When things don't go as he planned upon his return to the land of his birth, he finds himself once more crossing paths with a more experienced but just as enigmatic and calculating Ivar. Will they finally come to terms with their feelings for one another, or are they cursed to never get what they each truly want?
Relationships: Freydis/Ivar (Vikings), Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings)
Kudos: 16





	1. The Aftermath

After they had taken Kattegat, dispersing Lagertha's army into the winds and sending Bjorn and Ubbe into retreat, the bishop stayed. Ivar was swiftly crowned King of Kattegat, and the ambitious King Harald was pacified with a promise to be made Ivar's heir, effective after his death. Hvitserk, as always, was Ivar's ever-present shadow, seated by his side in the Great Hall and laughing at his brother's crude jokes on cue. But he never truly stepped into his own light, seemingly content being Ivar's dog. And Heahmund stayed, even though Ivar had effectively offered him his freedom for winning him the war. He no longer felt that hunger to break free of the chains binding him to Ivar, to Kattegat, to these heathen Vikings. England was no longer truly called his name. And so he stayed, going wherever Ivar went, in effect serving as his bodyguard. His sword now hung from his hip and remained his only source of consistency since he left England: tangles of clashes between mortal flesh and metal, his sword slicing like a divine union between weapon and warrior. For a brief time in the midst of battle, Heahmund harnessed his piety and became more beast than man. After Heahmund had been with Ivar for a few months, as they slowly chipped away at Lagertha and Bjorn's forces, he had dared to touch Ivar. He had placed his hand over Ivar's, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, pulling away with his head bowed, his eyes ever imploring. Almost instantly, he had felt the cold press of steel against his throat, Ivar's eyes flinty and angry. But insecurity dwelt in his too blue eyes as well, as if he was debating whether to kill Heahmund now or to see what would happen next. Ivar made no attempt to slit his throat or gut him, so Heahmund pushed the bounds even farther, pressing yet another kiss to Ivar's lips. This time, almost instantly pulling away after making initial contact. Turning out of Ivar's quarters and running before Ivar could say a word in response, the divine retribution of his Lord was hanging over his head already and damning him to the depths of Hell for his mortal sin. Heahmund didn't stay long enough to see Ivar's fingers shaking, hovering over his own kiss-swollen lips, his eyes unsure but glazed over with deep desire. A series of emotions flitted across his face, from arousal to fear to absolute shock. It hadn't ever happened to him before. Nobody had ever dared to touch Ivar the Boneless.  
3 Years Later... 

Ivar had been king of Kattegat for more than two years by now, and most of his subjects thought he was insane. Shortly after their forbidden kiss, Heahmund had returned to England, his shame and humiliation over what had happened had implored him to flee, to once more return to the Lord. He had left under the cover of night, his cloak drawn around his face. He had left without the other half of his soul, however; he had left his sword for Ivar, placed beside his cot for Ivar to discover upon waking the next morning. Boneless had very nearly been brought to tears, as only the departure of Folk and the death of his mother had in his life. No longer a petulant teenager, Ivar was 20 years old. He was a seasoned strategist and a capable warrior and king. He had defeated the two powerful English kings Aelle and Ecbert. He had captured the city of York. And now he was King of Kattegat. In the first six months of his rule, Ivar had worked on reinforcing the walls and defenses of the city, as his father and Heahmund would have likely done. He sent emissaries to his neighbors in a show of good faith, among them King Olaf the Stout and King Harald Finehair. Ivar had also taken a wife, a former slave girl named Freydis, who both infatuated and interested him. She had quickly become a confidant to Ivar, although her quick wit and sharp tongue reminded him of the glowering Bishop who had left him. When they had first lain together, he had only gotten half hard at best. Her long blond hair and sky blue eyes that always seemed to be waiting for something were arousing, but when he drove deep into her, he still replaced her honey hair and blue eyes with short raven locks and clear icy eyes that feared nothing, no man or god. Those eyes that Ivar dreamed of were so intelligent and cunning, but were filled with nearly constant conflict and rage. When Freydis had announced that she was finally with child, after several incomplete nights together, he had been filled with overflowing pride and assurance. It seemed that sheer force of will had finally overcome his disability. So for nearly five months after that, as Freydis became closer and closer to giving birth to his firstborn son, and her radiance became to appear to him more and more like the goddess Freya, Heahmund nearly vanished from his thoughts. Heahmund and his alluring eyes and voice like smoky ashes in the wind, his sword flying through enemy after enemy. For nearly five months, Heahmund was little more than a desperate fever dream. Until Ivar saw something that revealed to him the depth of his gullibility and inability to see what was happening under his nose. As he strolled by the stables, observing the newly constructed ramparts, Ivar saw Freydis walking into the stall that had once been Heahmund's prison, when Ivar had first captured him in battle at York, when the warrior bishop had been feral and hateful, pulling at his bindings like Fenrir. Once more feelings of longing had sprung up into Ivar's heart, his throat thick with feelings of yearning. However, it was Freydis' eyes that ultimately led to his discovery. Once they had been soft but wandering, looking for something she never seemed to find: no longer. Now they had hardened and darkened, and she was no longer lost. Whatever she had been looking for, she had found it. And so Ivar slowly followed her down the ally, his metal braces clacking against the stone streets as he continued along. Once he had situated himself out of sight, reminiscent of his years as a teenager watching from the shadows as his brothers took turns with Margethe, Ivar watched and waited. What he saw somehow managed to both surprise him and confirm his worst suspicions. His wife was in the stable, rutting against another man, a man he didn't even recognize, who was very likely not even a warrior, only a simple farmer. Self-righteous rage welled up in his chest, replacing the pride he had once felt, the savage in him demanding that he kill both the man and Freydis on sight. Ivar would relish the look of petrified shock on their faces as the axe came flying towards them and sliced through flesh and bone, lodging itself in a brain or a still-beating heart. Their blood would stain these floors and would run through his open fingers, sweet and warm as the two traitors slowly faded away. There would be no Valhalla for either of them, they would die alone and without the proper rites. Only Helheim would await, with its endless pits of misery and darkness, with no glory or joy to be had. The gods would abandon them, and Ivar's honor would be restored. No man who was truly a man would stand to be insulted and disrespected by another man in such a way, especially Ivar the Boneless. But he withheld his wrath for the time being, the voice of his father sounding in his head, reminding him to use his anger intelligently, but to always be ruthless. And so he walked away back to his quarters, and situated himself on his throne, taking his leg braces off and letting his hair down. Ivar dressed himself in soft, casual clothes he usually reserved for his times along or with Freydis. He placed his crutch out of reach and kept only his knives strapped along his thigh, the frigid steel like a welcome and comfortable embrace against his clean skin. And he waited, waited for Freydis to return to him.


	2. The Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar POV

When she did, in the waning hours of the evening, Ivar pretended not to notice. Let her underestimate him; she would pay dearly for it later. Ivar could just taste the fresh blood on his lips. When Freydis turned to face him, she smiled the smile of someone who was relieved, who believed that they had gotten away with it. Twirling one of his knives between his fingers, Ivar looked deep into her eyes as she seated herself on the throne beside him.  
"Freydis, you must know that I know what you've been doing in the stables when you think I'm not watching," Ivar said without interest, his eyes focused on the glint of his knife against the setting sun. Freydis froze next to him, her eyes suddenly filling with a terror he had seen in his mind's eye, the reality even sweeter than he had imagined. The thrill of being in control raced through his veins in a way it hadn't since he had outsmarted the Saxons at York and waged psychological warfare against the Bishop. But his Bishop proved himself to be every bit Ivar's equal and fought back in kind. Freydis offered no such challenge, but he still relished the chase and the catch. With her caught in his trap, Ivar smiled and made eye contact with her again.  
"I-I, how did you-" Freydis stuttered, the fear stealing her previously assured speech, as her face went pallid white and her fingers nearly dug into the arms on her throne. Ivar's smile slowly expanded, inch by inch.  
"How could I not know? Like the All-Father, I see all. And beloved Freydis, you know what I must do. You have cuckolded and shamed me, lain with another man and now you are pregnant with his child," Ivar said gently, the blaze in his eyes betraying the true state of his emotions. Freydis looked even more fearful.  
"Ivar, this is your child. Your divine child, the firstborn son of Ivar the God. You must believe me. You wouldn't slay your own son, would you?" Freydis protested, her arms reaching out toward Ivar's, hoping to grasp at some kind of clemency, or at the very least to stroke his ego. Ivar very nearly hesitated, lowering his knife to his side. Until he heard his father's voice one more time in his head, his tired voice imploring him to be ruthless, to make people pay for underestimating him. Happiness was nothing. And so Ivar waited and thought, until only Heahmund filled his eyes, his steel gaze telling Ivar to restrain himself and be tactical, his words 'That would be foolish' echoing in his ears. Ivar felt conflicted, and felt the distress in his spirit.  
"Freydis, Freydis. You know me too well. You are right, I am in fact a god. How could I ever kill or turn away my godly wife and child?" Ivar purred, opening his arms to the sniveling woman, who sprung into his embrace in apparent gratitude. Making to comfort her, he stroked her hair softly, nosing along her forehead.  
"Freydis. I love you, and I want to believe you. But I know when I'm being lied to. I cannot forgive you this treason," Ivar said softly into her ear. And so he gripped his hands around her neck and choked her, her breaths fast and ragged as she tried to escape the tight grip of certain death. When she stopped breathing, her body becoming still and devoid of life, he let go. For the first time since Heahmund had left, Ivar felt a deep sense of sadness, a single tear welling up in his eye. But he didn't cry. When they burned her body, with the child still in her belly, he didn't cry. When his brother Hvitserk refused to meet his eyes and simply shouldered past him once the body was nothing but ashes, he didn't cry. When he imagined Heahmund's indifferent gaze fixed upon him, haunting him like a draugr that was never laid to rest, he didn't cry.  
Ever since he was born, people had been talking about him, laughing at him. And when he murdered wife and her unborn child went up in flames, and he didn't cry or mourn, the kingdom began to whisper that King Ivar the Boneless was insane.


	3. The Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heahmund POV, in England

In England... 

Bishop Heahmund had lost track of the days he had spent locked up in the dark dungeon of King Aethelwulf's castle. He hadn't seen the sun or breathed fresh air in what felt like years to his sore limbs and bruised body. Being a captive of a king was something he had become used to. But when Heahmund was captured by Ivar the Boneless, the boy had at least kept him above ground and often come to taunt him or examine him. Aethelwulf had just thrown him into the darkest cell he could find and seemingly thrown away the key. His neck, wrists, and ankles were chained to the stone walls to his right and left. Just the way he remained chained to the earthly desires and temptations of the heathen world on one side and to the heavenly demands of the Christian world on the other hand. The sanctity of Christ and the unholy sweetness of Ivar's lips were battling for his soul. Everywhere Heahmund looked, the Devil seemed to be laughing at him, teasing him, telling Heahmund that he would always fall into sin's familiar embrace. And he would always punish himself for it. The Devil's eyes were always blue when they looked at him, they were Ivar's eyes alight with too much genius and madness to be mortal. His own Alexander the Great, winning battle after battle. He could remember the sting of losing York and most of the army to Ivar's tactical genius. Heahmund had felt denigrated and bewildered that such a resounding defeat had been handed down by a mere child, an angsty teenager who didn't seem to understand anything unless it was a game. Ivar was cruel and waged war because it amused him, and it made him more famous. He wanted to hurt the whole world, simply because it allowed him to conquer and fight. Ivar cared only for the taking of the city, and very little for the stability needed for ruling a city after the blood was shed. Ivar was a creature of chaos, like the Devil himself. And yet it was oh so seductive, offering itself to Heahmund like the blood of his enemies on Ivar's outstretched tongue. For a long time, Heahmund had been sure that meeting and fighting for Ivar the Boneless was a test God had devised for him, to prove his faith. And yet, once more chained, but now fully aware that he was truly crippled by a mindset and way of life that didn't fit him, Heahmund was starting to think that maybe meeting Ivar was a gift. Trying his best to fall asleep, Heahmund closed his eyes and remained there for what felt like another century. When Heahmund opened his eyes, he saw the light.   
Somehow, in the deepness of his slumber, he had been moved to a small, empty room in what he assumed was the palace. The smell of rot and despair from the dungeon was gone, his nose breathing in the sweet scent of humanity. Thanking God for his return to the land of the living, Heahmund knelt and bowed his head deeply in gracious prayer. God had not abandoned him yet, there was still more He had planned for Heahmund.   
The first person Heahmund saw was King Aethelwulf himself, striding into the small doorway with his oldest son Aethelred scuttling after him, the boy little more than a skittish child playing at being a man. The king was dressed in expensive fabrics, his outer tunic a rich Venetian purple. Aethelwulf smiled down at Heahmund, his cruel beady eyes seeming to take immense pleasure in seeing the proud Bishop of Sherborne brought to heel, a dog in chains.   
"I've come to tell you your fate, Bishop Heahmund. Remember that the Lord's mercy is my mercy for keeping you alive to see this day. For your crimes against the Holy Father and the Church, and for consorting with the heathens and taking on their false gods, I have decided that your punishment will be a harsh one. Three days hence you shall be punished as an apostate who serves the will of the Devil should be punished: You will be crucified," Aethelwulf says, the deep seated joy present in his smile. With a whirl of his cloak, the king and the Prince were gone. His face pallid white and his fingers shaking with deep agony, the Bishop of Sherborne, warrior priest for the Lord; Heahmund, the man who feared no one, cried. He cried, and no one but God saw his tears.   
/////

The next morning, he was given food and he learned all that had happened since he was imprisoned. Apparently, Heahmund had been in the dungeon for nearly two years, and much had happened in the outside world. Wessex was the last great English kingdom; even the might Kingdom of Mercia had fallen to the hordes of Vikings being led by King Harald Finehair, as a commander in the name of King Ivar the Boneless. Apparently, in his two years hidden away from the world, Ivar had made even more of a name for himself. He had married and his wife had been with a son, only for Ivar to kill her and the burn the body in a jealous rage. All the while, he was leading constant raids into England, as well as Ireland and Scotland, conquering the Picts to the North easily. Everywhere he went, he sacked towns, churches, and castles, taking from them many riches. But strangely, he never seemed to kill the priests and monks, taking only the treasure. A small part of Heahmund wanted to believe that Ivar was doing this for him, in honor of their friendship. But he knew that most likely Ivar was simply bored with them; what is the point of a game in which your adversary doesn't put up a fight? Where is the thrill, the honor, the glory in such a struggle? In addition, Bjorn and Lagertha had been repelled, along with Ubbe, into the wilderness and were suspected of planning to re-take Kattegat from Ivar, who had become increasingly ruthless and callous since taking the throne. More and more people had heard of his exploits along the Silk Road, and his own subjects had steadily shifted from healthy respect and fear to hatred for the crippled son of Ragnar. Images of Ivar's blood covered face and manic screams from the Battle of York immediently surfaced, as well as his martyring of the Bishop of York, who had choked to death on the melted molten gold of his cross and dragged through the streets of the city by Ivar's horse. If Ivar was truly losing control, then he was in greater danger of being betrayed and overthrown. Heahmund wouldn't put it past Hvitserk to defect, or more likely King Harald who had his own ambitions to be King of all Norway.   
But none of that mattered anyway-Heahmund would be dead in three days, his body left for the crows to pluck in the English sun, for the crime of betraying the one true God. Tears welled up again in his eyes.   
"My Lord, where are you? What have I done for you to forsake me? Where are you... where are you, Almighty God??" Heahmund cried out, his gaunt face red with renewed vigor. Was the intent of God to have him die in this way? Was his journey at last over? For the first time since he was first ordained and made Bishop of Sherborne, Heahmund dithered over his path forward. For the first time since he met Ivar the Boneless, Heahmund doubted his God and His love for him. Watching as another day came to an end, bringing him one sunset closer to death, Heahmund turned toward the vanishing sun and prayed to God once more, and to perhaps hear his voice.


	4. His Golgotha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heahmund POV, In England

The morning of his crucifixion, Heahmund prays from the sign of first light on. The first rays of the sun reach out to touch him, like the fingers of Jesus upon the leper. Like the hands of Jesus upon the cripple. Like the hands of Jesus upon the Risen, Lazarus. Perhaps once he had breathed his last breath, Heahmund too will be resurrected by the Son, the Christ beaming down to him from the sky. For several hours, Heahmund prays. He confesses his sins and begging the Lord for forgiveness. And he prays for Ivar, the pagan king and general, for Heahmund cannot banish his feelings for Ivar: a deep tender ache in his gut whenever he thinks about Ivar or hears that name. Heahmund prays that Ivar will be smart, and not allow his intelligence to be outmaneuvered by his anger. Heahmund prays that Ivar will be spared, that he will live. 

Later that Day...

The hot noonday sun beats down on Heahmund's head, bloody but not bowed. A crown of thorns has been fixed onto his head by another priest, and Heahmund's blood lazily flows into his eyes and his mouth freely. Heahmund doesn't cry out when they force him to carry his own cross into the forest beyond the castle of the king, the splinters digging into his fingers, the nails tearing and his raw flesh staining the cross crimson. They beat his back with a thick whip, the edge of it studded with metal nails, their points carving into the thicker, scarred skin on his upper shoulders. Soon he can feel the dizziness of fatigue and blood loss brought on from the constant torment. But he is too numb now to feel the pain, the sounds of their yells and jeers too muddled for his ears, like he's underwater. When they nail Heahmund's hands and feet to the wooden cross, he starts to feel it, all the agony rushing forward to engulf him in its tight embrace. Letting out heavy, ragged breaths, Heahmund clenched his teeth, trying to withhold the grunts of pain and the urge to wail with each hammer of the nail into his body. 

Heahmund tried to cry out to God, but he was unable to speak, his vision blurring and tilting as they hoisted the cross upright, black dots consuming his field of vision. When they finally had him upright, he began to sob, his heart broken, for God had truly abandoned him. After a lifetime of thirsting for blood and for the feel of the sword in his hand more than the word of God, Heahmund was finally being made to pay for his many sins. He had loved the fruit from the Forbidden Tree and the sweet taste of sin on his tongue too much, he had always been a better warrior than a priest. He had been a constantly repentant sinner who never intended to stop sinning, for he was too proud and too brash and too weak to ever truly stop. He had fought for his own glory as much as he had for the glory of God, ever since he was a youth in the Holy Land. The sting of his cuts and the throbbing of the blunt force used on his back and limbs were almost welcome in that moment, as he reflected upon himself and his life as only dying men truly do. It was an honest and painful reflection, and Heahmund only hoped that his confessions and the spilling of his own blood on the earth, as an offering would be enough to see him seated at the side of the Eternal Father. Pulling his own head upward and forcing himself to look into the eyes of cruel King Aethelwulf, cowardly Prince Aethelred, wise Queen Judith, and the peaceful and observant Prince Alfred, along with everyone who had gathered to watch this supposed apostate be crucified for his crimes. With a final rush of elation and pride, deep in his chest, Heahmund began to laugh and welcome the pain even more. The hatred he felt for these people made him tremble, his lips twitching for revenge and unspent mania. And that was when all shit broke loose. 

~~

As Heahmund cried out, God at last answered his call. He felt like he had the final might of Revelations at his beck and call, for out of the trees comes a great army and at its helm a savior. In that exact moment, as his fury-fueled screams echoed throughout the all of Wessex, all the anger and pain flowing out of him, filling nearly every God-fearing person's ears with their savagery. The godless heard them too. 

Heahmund didn't know if it was Ivar's gods or his own, but someone had been sent to save him. He was not to die yet, his journey was yet unfinished. Neither the angels nor the Valkyrie would capture his spirit today. And so silently, he smiled through the blood pooling in his mouth.


	5. The Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heahmund POV, in England

The town of Winchester was up in flames. The battlefield is littered with gore, weapons, and destruction. Red, black, and silver are the new colors of the capital of the great kingdom of Wessex. Instead, it is now a hellish symphony of screams, clashes of steel, and futile cries for mercy from Saxon civilians, a site of nightmares. The Saxon dead are many and lie in heaps around the walls of the castle. The faces of the fighters remain in his mind, grim with the certainty of death. Aethelwulf and his commanders had withdrawn into the stone walls of their fortress, leaving the dead and dying behind, the howls of the wounded making him want to hide away from it all. And yet it through the entire ordeal, Heahmund couldn't find it within himself to feel remorse for the Saxon king and his army. These were supposed to be his countrymen, his brothers in Christ, and they had thrown him to the wolves, they had forsaken him and damned him to a painful death upon the cross. But God had not abandoned him. God was not so fickle and petty. God had sent an army to save him, with all the wrath of heaven behind them. God had managed to use the heathens to his will and liberate Heahmund. King Harald had attacked Winchester in hopes of raiding it and continuing his campaign agains the last strongholds of England, in the service of King Ivar the Boneless as his heir. Heahmund had never been so happy to see the savage Northmen. King Aethelwulf had been caught by surprise, and barely managed to hold off the Vikings until the Saxons could make their escape. Within a few hours, the red and gold flags of the Saxon Wessex were gone, replaced by the raven banners of the Viking army. So when all the killing was done, and the dust and blood had settled, Heahmund prayed to God with renewed fervor, for he had been saved. 

~~~  
"Is that you, priest? I never expected to see you again, after you ran away back to England. Is this how Christians express thanks to their priests?" Harald rumbled cheekily, his eyes jovial and his cheeks flushed red from the heat of battle. To this day, Harald seemed to Heahmund the only king and warlord that was truly happy. Lagertha and Ivar seemed always so sad and lonely. All Heahmund managed to express was a deep guttural chuckle, as he was cut down and taken off the cross, deep hisses of pain escaping his throat as the nails were pulled from his hands and feet, while the crown of thorns was removed from his forehead, new blood welling up from the reopened wounds. He groans when he is finally pulled to his feet, his entire body stripped bare besides a white loincloth that scratches against his skin. 

"No, not usually. I thank you, King Harald, for this kindness," Heahmund replied breathlessly, the flaring of the pain all over his body warning him against moving too fast. Harald gave him a nod of respect, turning back towards where the army was setting up camp. Heahmund turned his good eye to look for any sign of life among the dead Saxons. 

"Let the healers see to your wounds, priest. We would welcome a man such as you to come with us. After we finish making our way past Winchester to raid the costal towns, we plan to head back north to York, to the kingdom of Mercia. King Ivar waits for us there; he had just joined our garrison stationed in the city. He just returned from conquering the Picts to the North. I am sure he will be incredibly...pleased to see you again," Harald said, his voice dropping at the end suggestively, quirking his eyebrows at Heahmund. Heahmund's cheeks became hot, but luckily he didn't blush too brightly, probably due to his body trying to conserve whatever blood he had left. 

Heahmund nodded his assent, allowing himself to be assisted to the healer's tent, the steady glow of a fire allowing his flagging mind to establish a sense of stability after what felt like years of turmoil and distress. When the tent was finally pushed open, he was greeted by a grizzled older man with a grim smile and a large knife, iron red with heat, in his left hand. Only now that he was finally outside the risk of imminent death and the rush of battle, did he notice the heaviness of his body and his solitary garment, where it was stained crimson. Only now did he notice the gaping, weeping wounds all over his back from the sting of the whip. Heahmund had barely been able to make it to a medical cot before he collapsed altogether. He was too sick and drained to even think about the healer with his knife or meeting Ivar once again. The time to think was gone. 

When Heahmund next opened his eyes, he was still exhausted and confused. He could still not see out of both eyes; the left throbbed where one of the Saxon priests had nearly stabbed him. Heahmund could feel where his back and chest were tightly wound, and his hands and feet set and bandaged. His right foot was splinted, elevated above his sick bed. The distance pain throughout his body was being held at bay, though the pounding in his skull warned him that this was likely a temporary reprieve brought on by a drug of some kind. Heahmund could feel himself healing slowly, very slowly. But at least he was more or less lucid. After taking a few minutes to re-orient himself, and take initial stock of his surroundings, Heahmund made an attempt to sit up. Instantly he regretted it. The sudden surge of sharp pain accompanied by the agony rippling down the muscles of his back and chest forced Heahmund to cease his efforts to survey his surroundings more completely. Unable to restrain himself, he let out a short keen of pain, the urge to cry out in distress nearly enough to make him weep. As if Heahmund's cry had alerted him, the same old healer entered the tent. Kneeling at Heahmund's bedside, he swiftly administered some sort of concoction that soothed the outburst of pain and cleaned his wounds, putting a fresh salve on his back where Heahmund could already feel scars forming. 

"What happened? How long have I been asleep?" Heahmund huffed, his breath slowly evening out once the healer's ministrations were done. The healer didn't aknowledge him for a while, breathing in deep, until he finally spoke, his voice deep-throated and worn. 

"I had to cauterize your wounds and stop the bleeding. You are nearly blind in the left eye, and you will likely never recover your sight. You will nearly re-gain full motion in your hands and feet. But I had to amputate two of the toes on your right foot and one on your left. We have been lucky, Bishop. I did not know whether the fever would carry you away to the afterlife. We have moved camp several times, but we are at least nearly at York. You have been asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, for nearly a month, Bishop," the healer reported, his eyes still firmly focused on his medicines. A feeling of shock swept through Heahmund's mind, not believing he had been ill for so long. Suddenly, the sound of bellowing war horns sounded. Either they were about to enter battle, or someone had just been announced. And Heahmund had an idea of who. 

~~~

~~~


End file.
